Oct. 8, 1910.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
5 G 9 
by fallen timber and it was necessary to do 
some trail making before we'could proceed. We 
did four days of the hardest work I ever ac¬ 
complished and swamped out four miles of trail 
that took us to the foot of a rocky backbone 
that led directly to the foot of the mountain. 
There were several small streams running into 
the meadow near its head, and from these we 
caught brook trout. In all my life in the West 
I never saw trout so numerous. The' streams 
were no larger than garden ditches and so over¬ 
grown with rank grass that 
one had to lift it aside in 
order to reach the water. 
Beneath the shadow of the 
grass the trout were simply 
swarming. 
One day while I was 
creeping up one of these 
little runlets I was startled 
by the most outlandish 
commotion in the grass just 
in front. I paused and 
drew my revolver. Noth¬ 
ing came out; instead all 
was quiet. I advanced a 
few steps and once more 
the commotion began; 
something was threshing 
the tall .grass right and left, 
but I could see nothing. I 
halted once more, leveled 
my revolver and was about 
to fire into the mass when 
I bethought me of a rule to 
never shoot until I knew 
what I was shooting at. I 
reached forward and gently 
teased the grass aside with 
my rod, revealing three 
young blue herons that 
were quiet as mice. They 
lay perfectly still watching 
me with their beady black 
eyes. While occupied in 
watching the youngsters I 
heard a cry and looked up 
in time to see the mother 
bird darting for my head, 
her long bayonet - shaped 
beak thrust forward in a 
decidedly pugnacious man¬ 
ner. I knew she would 
hardly attack me, nor did 
she. When only a few 
yards away she swerved 
upward and circled about 
my head, calling to her 
mate. He soon came and 
the two endeavored to beat me off. Ornitholo¬ 
gists say that these birds generally nest in trees, 
but we found at least fifty of their nests on this 
meadow, none of them in trees, though there 
were plenty of favorable trees for them to build 
in had they been so minded. 
» A day of hard travel brought us as near to 
the base of the mountain as we could travel with 
the horses. After leaving the grove of lodge 
pole pine, the trail faded to nothing. We chose 
an open rocky ridge and followed it up toward 
the mountain. In places the ridge narrowed to 
a very knife edge, fretted with slide rock and 
moraine until it cut the feet of our horses so that 
we were forced to shoe them with bits of blanket. 
Our camping spot was in the bottom of a very- 
deep narrow canon on the side of the mountain 
where sufficient forage grew to subsist the horses 
for a few days. Although it was August the 
nights were very cold; so cold, in fact, that we 
found our bedding inadequate and were com¬ 
pelled to keep a fire all night. My prime object 
in coming thus far out of our direct route was 
to scale the peak, and if possible kill a moun¬ 
tain goat of which there were several bands 
known to the Indians, ranging upon the mountain. 
Our first day’s hunt resulted in nothing larger 
than a rabbit, though we came within range of 
several bands of blacktail deer and I had great 
difficulty in keeping Charley from killing sev¬ 
eral. That night we crept into camp tired and 
footsore, after clambering over the steep crags 
and around the fields of slide rock. During the 
day our hunt led us to the snow line where we 
found goat sign which, read by Charley, said 
that the wary animals had already detected our 
presence in the neighborhood and had betaken 
themselves to the opposite, or north side of the 
mountain. 
At daybreak we were off again. That day 
we scaled the peak directly from our camp, 
reaching the summit before noon. There we 
rested in the shelter of a great boulder. The 
wind was blowing a gale and the air filled with 
particles of snow. It was a grand sight when 
the clouds broke, as they did at times, to look 
down at the vast sea of forest stretched away 
at our feet, rolling, as far as the eye could see, 
in every direction. It was coming winter time 
for the little chief hares that lived in the rocks, 
and they were busy gathering dry grass for 
their beds. The little chaps were all about us. 
From the very rock we 
were seated behind several 
of them darted up their in¬ 
quiring heads, looked at us 
with their big liquid black 
eyes, turned their funny 
round ears in our direc¬ 
tion, then shot down again 
with a chirp. 
We passed over to the 
north side of the cone and 
swept the hillside below us 
with a glass. Half way 
down lay a patch of white 
which I took to be snow, 
but Charley, with his keen¬ 
er vision, said it was a herd 
of goats. It was nearly as 
difficult to reach the place 
as it was to ascend the 
mountain. We spent at 
least four hours in getting 
in position where we could 
stalk the game. I peeped 
cautiously over a rocky 
backbone and found that 
our quarry had scented us 
and decamped. While we 
were searching the vicinity 
we heard the rattling of 
stones above us and looked 
up to see the last of the 
goats disappearing over the 
peak. I consoled myself with 
the thought that it was too 
early for goats, anyhow. 
Charley appeased his disap¬ 
pointment on the way to 
camp by killing a spike buck. 
A discovery of the third 
day led to the killing of 
a goat on the fourth. The 
hunt of that day proved 
fruitless as the others had 
done. We sighted two 
bands of goats, but could 
not get within a mile of 
them. Just before return¬ 
ing to camp that night we stumbled across a 
well-worn goat trail filled with fresh tracks 
leading both ways. This runway skirted a ledge 
of rock near the summit on the north side of 
the mountain, then wound down the southern 
slope to a feeding ground which lay several 
thousand feet higher than our camp. It was 
evident that the animals made a practice of com¬ 
ing across the mountain at night to feed, return¬ 
ing at daybreak to a point where they would be 
less molested. Hitherto we had hunted together. 
That night Charley suggested that on the mor¬ 
row we take separate courses and that I hasten 
to the summit, secrete myself on this ledge, 
while he skirt the northern slope and appear 
MULTNOMAH FALLS, 840 FEET HIGH, IN THE COLUMBIA RIVER COUNTRY. 
Photograph by E. H. Moorehouse. Courtesy G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
